The sun poured over the gilded hilltops, pulling soft focus onto the wide brim of her hat and the speckled shadows it projected on her chest. A gold necklace, suspended in the moment, spelled Blue Ivy. Beyoncé took a small sip of the bordeaux in front of her, glanced at the legs running down the glass without interest. She shrugged, pleased enough, and took another sip.

“Do you have anything lighter?” Michelle Obama asked a server as she sat across from Bey in a plush terry cloth robe, her slippers like clouds yielding a warm embrace. The two had never truly been away together, yet only a few hours into their Napa adventure, had decided they would make it an annual tradition. Both bad bitches, it was rare to get the chance to live out their basic bitch dreams of cucumber water and hot stone massages and wine, ah yes, all the wine.

It is definitely super duper neat that trash cans exist. Like, how easy is it to eat an entire bag of chips in one sitting and then throw away the evidence? It’s dope. I love it.

Then you have this garbage bag full of shit you don’t want anywhere near you anymore and you just take it out back and put it into a bin! Suddenly the packaging to every item you’ve bought on Amazon is its own Russian nesting doll of grossness, tucked away neatly in a bag, in a bin.

As if by magic, that bin gets dumped into a truck and whisked far, far away from your home, never to be seen or thought of again. But here’s where things get fuckin’ weird. Trash doesn’t disappear. We somehow decided to dig GIANT FUCKING HOLES in the ground to put it all in. Like literally we think it somehow leaves this Earth when in reality we just threw some god damn dirt on top of it and called it a day.

Some people light that shit on fire which I get, sounds tight. But then your apple juice-addicted child is breathing in air made of your toenail clippings. It’s like, not that chill for the environment or your bod.

This isn’t some crazy hippie way of telling you to reduce your waste. I don’t give a shit about your waste. I am just a person, high on marijuana, thinking about how FUCKING NUTS IT IS that we think trash vanishes when really it’s buried in mass graves of decomposing broccoli stems somewhere out in Bumblefuck, Illinois.

If that is upsetting to you don’t worry, it is also upsetting to me. AND I HAVEN’T EVEN GOTTEN TO THE PART ABOUT THE DOLPHINS. I have zero facts to back this up, but I’m pretty sure the weird plastic you’re too fucking lazy to cut into tiny shreds is suffocating like, a shit ton of dolphins.

I don’t have a solution. If I did, I wouldn’t be sitting here in a training bra wondering if I have enough money to buy a bottle of rosé and still retire. And I’m not going to have a solution, because my brain is too stupid. But there’s gotta be some sixth grader out in the world, at this very second, figuring it out. I know there is. So Little Sarah Miller, or whatever your name may be, please put the pedal to the metal so I can get high in peace without worrying about all the chip bags and toenail clippings and dolphins and GIANT HOLES OF TRASH IN THE GROUND.

The blue-eyed, red-breasted phillabrew is a bird of great complexity. Feeding on mainly seeds, it lives much of its adult life high in the treetops resting on branches and pruning its feathers. But in the early stages of adulthood, the male phillabrews retain many of their feathers, aspiring to fluff them out should they meet a suitable mate for breeding.

It is not difficult for the blue-eyed, red-breasted phillabrew to find a female companion with whom they wish to procreate. Their challenge, is convincing the female that he is the best option for her. Approximately three or four days after its initial contact with a female, he will take out his cell phone and text her. The correspondence varies, but usually begins with “hey” and will have some form of “babe” peppered in. He will sit on his couch, smoke weed with his friends, and wait for a response while pretending he does not care. Research has found that he actually does care, but doesn’t want to come off as a pussy to his fellow bro birds.

In very rare instances this approach will work, eliciting a response from a female who is either looking for a serious boyfriend, or just wants to get laid and thinks Jason is “cute enough.” They will go out a few times, usually somewhere kind of inexpensive so that the male doesn’t have to spend his fortune in the process of fornication. The females will notice this, and although statistically they will still mate with the male phillabrews, they will be silently annoyed that he can’t get his shit together and spend a little more money on the wine.

Turns out cheap wine gets you just as buzzed as the good stuff, so the females will inevitably go home with them. High up in the branches, he will kiss her. It is worth noting that most male phillabrews are bad at kissing, a combination of inflated ego and the fact that their beaks make it difficult. His performance usually worsens as the night goes on, the male thinking he is doing a great job pleasing her while the female is kind of going, “Oh great, I’ve officially lost all sexual attraction to you.” Science however, suggests that we shouldn’t place too much blame on the male. Sure, he can’t find most of her female parts, but can you point out the female parts on a bird? You can’t. You are sitting here right now thinking oh my god, where are all of their parts! Where are the male parts, even?! So you see, it is more complicated than you think.

Mrs. Perkins knew she was in trouble the second she set the plastic molding of the female reproductive system onto her desk. The class before her, 20 students and 20 of their parents, looked on with wonder as they sat in the room that was usually adorned with test tubes and Einstein quotes. Today, they were surrounded by graphic diagrams and step-by-step instructions on how to put on a condom.

Why Principal Thompson would schedule the first annual Bring Your Parent To School Day during their sex education rotation would be discussed for years to come. This was one of two large oversights in his calendar, having also picked the week the PE activity was swimming. Sally May’s mother in a bathing suit was nothing to be desired. Tanner Bergman’s father had refused to wear a swim cap, worried the rubber would rip out the last hairs that remained on his horseshoe head. Mrs. Perkins adjusted the plastic vagina as fifth graders and their namesakes looked on.

“Let’s start with the inside. Here are the ovaries, where eggs are produced.” Children giggled and adults shifted in their seats with discomfort. Finally, little Laura Mazur shot her hand in the air, her brunette hair held back by the cutest of headbands.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Perkins?” She asked.

“Yes, Laura?”

“Where exactly in the uterus does an egg attach itself?” Laura sat awaiting a response, pen and paper at the ready. Laura was incredibly smart. Yale bound, for sure.

“On the side, although it varies each time.” Mrs. Perkins responded. Laura wrote it down, word for word. It was then that Mrs. Perkins opened it up to the class. The discussion, not the vagina. “Does anyone else have questions so far?” Ed Lerman, father of the adorable nerd Charlie Lerman, after much deliberation, raised his hand.

“Yes?” Mrs. Perkins asked.

“Why is it that whenever I initiate intimacy with my wife, she turns a cold shoulder and pretends to be asleep?” Mrs. Perkins looked over to little Laura, sitting patiently in front of her notes.

“Well Mr. Lerman, perhaps if you were more motivated in your career-“ Mrs. Perkins started.

“Is that it?” Ed asked.

“Well,” she continued, “It could also be that during your children’s bath time you watch Sports Center and drink beer.” Ed pondered this as Scottie Nemoy’s father chimed in.

“I help with bath time every night. Or I did, before we separated.” As the word separated clung to the air, Sally May’s mother to perked to attention, pushing her boobs higher into her bra.

“Do you want to get out of here?” She asked. And like that, they were gone. Now little Laura, who had just finished rereading her transcripts, had another question.

“Mrs. Perkins, where did Mr. Nemoy take Sally May’s mother?” She asked.

“Well Laura, they went to have sexual intercourse in the women’s restroom outside of the band room.” Laura jotted all of this down, furrowing her brow.

“I thought two people only had sex when they were in love.” Laura responded, now confused but still writing.

“Yes, only when they are in love. Or drunk, bored, or lonely. Or if the other person is really cute.” Mrs. Perkins then looked over to Ed, who was staring inquisitively at the plastic vagina.

“Did you have another question, Mr. Lerman?” She asked.

“I don’t think I’ve heard of half of these parts.” He squinted his eyes, still looking at the model.

Thank you for taking the time to read this, even though you are made of wax so I assume you are illiterate. It’s still kind of you to maintain aggressive eye contact with this piece of paper as I hold it mere inches in front of your face. You haven’t blinked in several minutes, so I’m pretty sure you’re absorbing the information.

I write to you today, because I want to tell you that I understand everything you’re going through. I can’t imagine how agonizing it would be to know that while you look like the creepy fraternal twin of Sofia, you lack her accent and bubbly personality that is so adored by millions. It can’t be fun to have breasts that are sculpted to perfection, but are missing the bounce and natural movement that make them so iconic. And perhaps worst of all, there is no wax figure of Joe Manganiello. You spend every night alone in this room. Well you aren’t technically alone, you are surrounded by Wax Figure Rihanna and Wax Figure Heidi Klum, but I’ve never heard either of them speak a single word.

Sure, you look a lot like the highest paid actress in television. That’s nice. But those residual checks have no mention of you OR Madame Tussaud. You have to tell people you were made in London, which is wayyy less exotic than Colombia. They speak English in London, did you know that? So boring. I assume you would defend all of this by saying that none of it matters, that your one true happiness in this world is your 24-year-old son Manolo and as long as he’s good, you’re good. But he isn’t your son, he’s Sofia’s. You’re as barren as a chunk of plaster and wax because you ARE a chunk of plaster and wax.

I don’t mean to put you down. I respect everything you do, even though all you do is stand there. Your skin looks just as flawless as it did yesterday when I visited and brought you that nice wedge of brie. You keep a smile literally glued to your face day in and day out, nobody ever stopping to think hey, what if this inanimate object has a complex set of emotions? I’ve thought of these things, but only because I’m currently in an intimate relationship with an ottoman. So I get it, you know?

Anyway, I guess I should let you go. The line behind me is truly horrified that I refuse to put this letter down and walk to the next figure until I am absolutely positive that you’ve gotten to the end of it. I just want you to know that I support you, and also that things aren’t really working out with the ottoman and I wanted to see if you’d like to grab a drink sometime? You know what, let’s hold off on that drink, because at this very moment I’m getting arrested for licking your ear. Wow, everybody in this museum is like, super mad at me right now. I’ll write you from prison!!

Okay I don’t even know where to begin. Things got way out of hand very, very quickly.

As you know, I’m a Belieber. You may also remember that my room is completely covered in like, a serial killer amount of Justin Bieber items. If you need a refresher on this, my room is just down the hall from yours, next to the bathroom we share. Please do not touch anything, as I am very particular about where the cut outs stand and the one in the tank top can’t be too close to the window or else he gets cold. Again, it’s best if you just don’t touch anything.

Anyway so ya know, I love him and plan on spending the rest of my life with him once we finally have the chance to meet after he spots me from the 6th row seats I spent $800 for on eBay and his bodyguard grabs me and brings me back stage where we fall in love. That is inevitable, and something I repeat over and over to myself as I try not to hurl my computer into the wall after reading that he has a new girlfriend.

I guess what I’m trying to say, is I’m sorry I turned your American Girl doll into a voodoo doll of Hailey Baldwin. I know you were totally excited to have Molly roller skate around the kitchen floor, and you must have been so disappointed when you picked her up only to realize that something was stuck right through her heart and, “JUSTIN IS MINE!!!!!!!!! DIE HAILEY, DIE!!!!!!!” was written on her forehead. I’m like, really sorry about that. Truly.

I understand that you were also probably bummed when you couldn’t find Molly’s glasses, then saw that it was those same glasses that I’d used to stab her in the chest. I don’t even know what came over me, besides the overwhelming urge to send some serious bad juju to Stephen Baldwin’s youngest daughter.

Now is a good time to also tell you that yes, I am the one who beat Molly over the head with her tiny violin, and ripped one of her arms out of its socket and hid it under her bed. And probably cruelest of all, I’m embarrassed to say that it was also me who gave her bangs. They look terrible. I’m so sorry.

Despite my earnest efforts, it appears that none of it worked. Hailey is continuing her awesome life as a model, and Molly’s injuries were in vain. I hope that you accept this apology, and know that if I could do it all over again I probably would, but only because I have rage blackouts and have literally zero control of what I do with my body.

Please take this American Girl doll wheelchair as a token of my sincerity.